Friends protect you
by kathaka9
Summary: "People don't generally like me," he said with a shrug. "What's not to like," John exclaimed without thinking. He didn't quite know where the comment had come from, he hadn't even known him 24 hours who was he to make comments like that. However a small part of him knew that there was something special about this boy, it drew him to him despite his rude display in class.
1. First impressions are everything

John stood stiffly in front of the crowded classroom. He shifted from foot to foot as he had to listen to yet another teacher generically introduce him to the class. It was his 3rd school in the past 2 years, he was used to it but that didn't make it any less awkward. No matter what the teachers said it was obvious that nobody in the classroom cared who John was and that they just wanted to get on with the lesson so they could leave. He shifted awkwardly on his feet as he anxiously waited for the teacher to finish introducing him so he could run to his seat and away from the spotlight.

It seemed like an eternity until the teacher gestured for him to sit down. He walked over towards the only empty seat in the classroom, it was right at the back near a boy with curly brown hair who had been tapping his pen impatiently against his notebook the entire introduction. The boy stood out to John as someone you wouldn't normally find in a high school classroom. He, unlike the other students in t-shirts and jeans, wore a long trench coat along with a scarf that had been tied around his neck.

He decided that it was probably best for him to attempt to make friends with the boy that he would probably be stuck sitting next to for the remainder of the year. He tapped the boy's shoulder to gain his attention. In seconds his head had whipped around and John was met with a pair of strangely coloured eyes. He couldn't figure out what colour they were supposed to be, were they blue, were they green, were they some colour unknown to humans. If he hadn't known that aliens were most likely not real he definitely would've expected him to be one.

"My name's John," he said as he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. The boy, whose name he still didn't know gave him an unamused stare in response. He turned his head back to the front and quickly jotted something down onto the paper in front of him.

"I'm aware, you were just introduced to the entire class, you know," he said sounded very annoyed. John mentally facepalmed, mystery boy was right, he had been. He felt so stupid that he had forgotten.

"Well what's your name then," John asked as he tried to quietly make conversation with the boy. The boy didn't look back at him and just continued to write notes on his piece of paper.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. John took a moment to process the information and to file it away for future notice. Sherlock, his name was Sherlock. He didn't know what to make of such a strange name.

He smiled at him and held out his hand, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock," he said amicably. Sherlock turned back to him and he once again found himself under the watchful gaze of Sherlock's strange eyes. He felt like he was being studied in a lab beneath the gaze. Sherlock took his hand wordlessly and shook it. "Likewise John Watson," he said.

John had expected their conversation to continue but Sherlock had quickly let go of his hand and gone back to whatever he was writing down on the paper. John sighed and leant back in his seat, it seemed like trying to talk to Sherlock would be a lost cause. He decided to instead attempt to pay attention as their teacher prattled on about algebra but quickly found himself zoning out again. It wasn't that he didn't understand what the teacher was talking about, it was that it was so boring that he just wanted to fall asleep on his desk. A quick look around the classroom confirmed that a few of his other classmates had had the same idea as there were a few students with their heads down on their desks who didn't even look like they were even attempting to pay attention to the teacher's boring rant about algebra that seemed to be lasting hours.

He turned to Sherlock to see if he was in the mood to talk to him. However, much to his surprise he was furiously scribbling in a notebook, his hand moving so fast that John could barely keep up with the speed. He tried to catch a glimpse as to what the boy might be writing but his handwriting was practically illegible, it would be a miracle if Sherlock himself could even make out the words later. However, whatever Sherlock was doing it certainly had nothing to do with the algebra the teacher wouldn't shut up about. It was almost like he was in his own little world and couldn't even hear the boring lecture that was being given.

He tapped him lightly on the shoulder and whispered to him, "hey." Sherlock abruptly dropped his pen which loudly clattered to the floor. It echoed around the classroom and the teacher went quiet at the sound. She paid no attention to the people drawing in their books, nor the people sleeping in the front row, hell she didn't even take a glance at the girl who was in the process of trying to sneak out the window, her eyes went straight to the two of them. "Are you two even listening to a word I'm saying," she asked loudly.

John heard the snickers of a few of his classmates at her question. Just his luck, the first day at the new school and he was already in trouble. He frantically tried to nod to assure her that he had in fact been listening to her lecture, as boring as it may've been. However, Sherlock spoke before he had a chance to get out frantic yes's. "Of course we're listening," Sherlock began. John let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief at Sherlock's response. He had not only told her that he'd been listening, even though Sherlock had obviously not been listening, but also that he had been too. It made him smile to think that this boy who he had barely known an hour was ready to stick up for him.

However, whatever relief John felt quickly died when Sherlock continued to speak. "It just takes time to process so much stupid in one go." John couldn't believe his classmates words, had he really just said that. Any thoughts about Sherlock that were good instantly died, he had just thrown him under the bus, and on his first day too. He was pissed, he wanted nothing more than to punch Sherlock in one of his annoying perfect cheekbones, but he knew that violence unfortunately was not the answer. Violence would only lead to more trouble and any chance of making friends squashed.

The teacher just sighed at Sherlock's response as if it were as normal as the sun rising. "Thank you for your input Mr Holmes but other students are clearly interested in my lecture and do not as you put it, find it 'stupid.'" John was surprised at how level-headed their teacher sounded as she gave her response. He couldn't help but wonder how regularly this happened, at any other school Sherlock would've been sent to detention or the principal's office for such a comment yet their teacher just sounded vaguely annoyed.

He didn't know why he had expected Sherlock to just leave it, he knew that he shouldn't of. It was clear that he was an outspoken person and wouldn't keep his opinion to himself. However, he had not expected him to throw their entire class under the bus. "'Interested,'" Sherlock said as he made quotation marks around the word. The teacher simply glared at him, "yes interested."

Much to his surprise Sherlock actually laughed at that. It surprised John how beautiful Sherlock's laugh actually was, it was almost like in the movies when you heard choirs of angels singing except in laugh form. He felt himself smiling upon hearing the sound. "So is your definition of interested different than mine," Sherlock asked almost innocently.

"Interested, the act of having the feeling of interest or showing curiosity or concern about it," she quoted as she glared at him. It was obvious by her tone of voice that this had happened before, especially given her text book recitation of the definition.

"So does that include sleeping in class, doodling in books, playing on phones and trying to escape out the window," he asked his voice still sounding oddly innocent. The girl who had been attempting to escape glared at him as she returned to her seat grumbling about how it was all his fault. Despite Sherlock's assessment of the classroom's level of interest the teacher still didn't seem to particularly care about the sleeping or distracted students, she kept her gaze fixed on Sherlock Holmes.

She took a deep breath in as she locked eyes with Sherlock. "I believe we weren't talking about the rest of the class but whether the two of you were listening, so Sherlock can you tell me what my so-called 'stupid' lecture was about," she growled.

John had expected Sherlock to be beaten upon hearing her question. There was no way that he had been able to listen while scribbling whatever he had been in his notebook. However, without missing a beat Sherlock answered her question, "in short you were giving us a lecture about the origins of algebra, despite it having no relevance to the current topic which is supposed to be calculus."

She responded by staring at him in stunned silence. "Just do page 34 of your books," she said sounding flustered as she sat down at her desk and began to play with her phone. John stared at Sherlock in shock, while the boy was an asshole he was a brilliant one. A brilliant, annoying asshole who seemed to have no fears about how people would react to his harsh comments about the teacher's lecture. A look around the classroom told him that she hadn't bothered to do anything about the sleeping or doodling students and had just decided to give up.

"That was brilliant," he said as he looked at Sherlock brightly. Sherlock blinked at the reaction before he seemed to regain himself. "Thanks."

"Look I know I'm new here and this is kinda soon but do you want to be friends," John asked sheepishly. He didn't know why he was attempting to open up towards Sherlock but something felt right about it. Usually, he had trust issues and ended up as a loner as a result but this felt different. Something within him told him that Sherlock Holmes was a person that he could trust. He felt that this would be the start of a beautiful friendship.

"Look, John, you seem like a nice person and all so you should know that people will not accept you if you're my friend, you will be a social outcast. If you make friends with me John Watson, that's it, trust me when I saw we're better off not being friends, in fact, we're better off not even talking to one another."

The words hit John like a bullet to the chest. He didn't know how he should feel upon hearing them. The logical part of him knew that Sherlock had to be doing this for a reason, it knew that Sherlock didn't want him doomed to be a loner alongside him. However, the less logical part of his brain screamed at him that it was simply that he didn't like him.

"I don't care about what other people think," he answered in response. It wasn't like he would make other friends anyway with his trust issues. Making friends wasn't really his area of expertise. "Besides I can just hang out with you and your friends, can't I?" He worried that perhaps he had sounded too hopeful or that he was being desperate. It was just that something about Sherlock drew him towards him and gave him the desperate desire to be his friend.

"John," he said as he looked away back at his notebook. "I don't have friends." John felt his heart break for the boy in front of him, he had to be so lonely. He knew how it felt to not have friends, but that didn't mean that he hadn't had people he could talk to and joke around with. Despite his friendless status, he'd always had Harry to fall back on. It seemed to him like Sherlock didn't have anybody and a small part of him wanted to be that somebody despite the fact that they had only just met.

"Isn't that lonely," he found himself asking before he could stop himself. Sherlock simply shrugged and responded, "alone is what I have, alone protects me."

John looked at him dead on and if Sherlock had seen the look he was giving him he would've turned to stone then and there. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and turned them so that they would be facing each other. "Get this into your head, alone doesn't protect people, friends protect people."

He would've gotten up and left to make his point seem that much more dramatic but he couldn't as they were in the middle of class so he couldn't just up and leave. The teacher, after all, was already pissed at Sherlock and it probably wouldn't make a good impression if he just up and left, despite the fact that he wanted to.

"I don't need friends John, what I need right now is for you to shut up so I can finish trying to crack this case." He didn't quite understand what Sherlock meant by 'cracking the case' but he assumed that it was some lame excuse to make him shut up which he found quite rude. He wondered if his initial thoughts that Sherlock would make a good friend had been entirely wrong, maybe the boy was just an asshole.

"Fine, not like I wanted to be friends with you anyway," he angrily muttered under his breath. He heard Sherlock whisper under his breath, "thank god." That only served to piss John off even more, what did this pretty boy think he was doing. He had thought that maybe he would've been a cool person to talk to given that they would be stuck next to each other for an entire year, however, it seemed that the great Sherlock Holmes was too high and mighty to talk to the lowly John Watson. Apparently, he didn't need friends, so it was no wonder that the prick didn't have any.

He imagined all of his hopes at finally having a friend, someone he was close with, as a small bug which he squashed beneath his feet. Sherlock obviously didn't want to be friends anyway so what was the point in even hoping for it, he wondered as he heard the end of class bell ring. He turned his head away from the boy beside him and watched as his fellow classmates left. The first one out the door was the girl who had tried escaping out the window, followed by the students who had been playing on their phones or doodling in their notebooks. Last but not least the students who had been sleeping dragged themselves out of their seats and out of the classroom. He had expected Sherlock to leave pretty quick but instead he had just stayed in his seat and observed as the rest of the students left. It felt similar to the way he had watched John early as he had sat down. He wondered if Sherlock observed everyone as if they were lab rats in an experiment.

John got up and walked towards the exit of the classroom. The entire time he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, watching him intensely. It was almost unnerving, but then he remembered that Sherlock was just an asshole, he was probably doing it just to make him feel uncomfortable. He cast a glance back at him as he left the classroom, a part of him hoped that they would meet again but most of him never wanted to see those curly locks again.

Luck was not on John's side. As it turns out Sherlock was in every single one of his other classes and surprise, surprise the only free seat would be next to him. It was no wonder that nobody sat by him if he was willing to treat someone who just wanted to be friends like dirt. He wondered if maybe he was just being bitter. However, his mind had already decided that Sherlock was an asshole and nothing short of a miracle would change that.


	2. The more you know

It was the last class of the day, John repeated in his mind. He fought the urge to lay his head down on the table and just close his eyes. The teacher kept prattling on about how the movie Wall.E was some sort of cinematic masterpiece which quite frankly it wasn't in John's eyes. While it was a good movie it wasn't worth spending a whole class talking about how 'great' it was. In fact her voice was so smooth that he found his eyes drooping and himself zoning out only to snap back to attention just before his head could hit his desk.

He looked over at Sherlock beside him despite his best interest. Why he cared what the asshole in a trenchcoat was doing he didn't know but he couldn't help but look. Yet again, much like he had been doing the entire day he was scribbling wildly in that damn notebook with illegible handwriting. It was annoying, he thought that perhaps reading Sherlock's random scribbles would be better than the lecture from hell about the cinematic merits of Wall.E.

Fuck it, he decided as he reached over and snatched Sherlock's notebook from him. He didn't really react other than to shoot him a glare. He placed the pen down on the table and placed his hands into the prayer position, it was a strange action but he could pray until his face went blue but John wasn't about to give the book back. Right now the book was the only thing keeping him from falling asleep and smacking into his desk. He tried to make sense of whatever Sherlock had scribbled on the page but the writing was loopy and very difficult to read. It was somewhere between a child's handwriting and cursive which made for an incredibly hard to read book. He wondered if Sherlock had intended it to be that way or if he just hadn't passed the handwriting class in primary school.

He had expected to find just ramblings about something trivial, maybe someone who he had a crush on, or maybe some sort of story, what he hadn't expected was to find detailed notes about murders and the full moon. As he deciphered more of the full moon notes he realised that they were mostly about how it related to crime at that time. He would never have pegged Sherlock as someone to play detective, even if it made complete sense given his deduction skill or whatever it was Still the notes confounded John to say the least. What would Sherlock be researching it for in the first place, he guessed that maybe Sherlock could be a writer of some sort but something about his impression of Sherlock so far debunked that thought.

Suddenly Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table and shot out of his seat so fast that John swore he could of beat the speed of light. The teacher went silent as she stared at the boy who now stood tall behind his desk. The entire class went silent and looked at him expectantly, what they expected him to do he didn't know. Perhaps they'd expected Sherlock to make some rude comment like he had during first period.

"I've got to go," he shouted as he literally jumped over his desk despite the fact that he could've very easily gone around it. He dashed out of the classroom without another word and left a very confused John in his wake. He looked around the class who all seemed completely unphased by whatever had just happened. They just sighed and turned their attention back towards the teacher.

"What just happened," he asked out loud. The entire class sighed in response, "it's Sherlock, he does that," they said as if it would explain anything. The teacher went back to her Wall.E lecture like nothing had even happened and the class continued to either listen to her or do whatever it was they did while pretending to listen.

John turned his attention back to the notebook in front of him and wondered what realisation Sherlock had come across. However, looking at the messily scrawled words on the page gave him no answers except for the so called ways that victims were 'murdered.' Reading that John began to worry about Sherlock's sanity. John tried to shake himself out of that train of thought, Sherlock was an asshole, nothing more. There was no need to worry about the asshole in the long coat, yet somehow he couldn't help but worry.

He looked at the black notebook, would Sherlock want his seemingly mad ramblings back. He sighed as the final bell rang and he was forced to take Sherlock's book home with him. He stuffed it into his bag amongst his clothes so that nobody would find it. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't mind the crumbled state it would get returned in, but given he had let John take the book with almost no hesitation perhaps he didn't really care much for it.

John got up from his seat and left the classroom. He slowly walked through the courtyard of the school, not really feeling up to hearing the usual questions from his mother of 'how was your day,' 'did you make any friends' or the fateful 'did you meet anyone you liked,' with the usual annoying wink that always made him cringe. It wasn't that they were hard questions to answer especially as they practically always had the same answers, 'school was good, no I didn't make any friends and no I didn't meet anyone I liked,' followed by his mum making him hot chocolate and him retreating to his room.

He didn't really have any direction as he walked but he made sure to keep his eye on his surroundings. Years of moving from school to school, almost always as a social outcast lead him to ensure that he watched his back and was aware of his surroundings. He watched carefully as he saw younger students talking or playing games of basketball, soccer, netball, hell even a few were playing tag of all things. Nobody felt like much of a threat but he knew that it could all change in the blink of an eye. He continued walking and tried to put more purpose into his steps so he looked like he fit in. However, the truth was he didn't. He stood out like a sore thumb amongst the group of students either dressed in black or bright coloured clothing. He didn't fit in and he knew it, not with his oversized white sweater and not even slightly torn jeans.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a small girl trying to grab a doll back from two older boys who threw it between each other in a game of keep-away. While he knew it would be dumb to step in the middle, especially given that he was about three quarters of the height of the boys themselves he couldn't deny the overwhelming desire to help the girl that welled up within him. Without a second thought he rushed in the middle of them and tried to snatch the doll back for the girl who was on the verge of tears.

"James, give me back my doll," she whined as she reached for the doll, the boy she had identified as James, now held above his head. She gave him her best attempt at puppy dog eyes but even those didn't seem to phase him. John glared at the boys, "you heard her, give the doll back," he said leaving no room for argument in his voice.

The boys looked at each other and had an almost silent conversation entirely in stares. He was surprised at how much they could communicate through looks and he couldn't help but wonder what it was like to have a friendship that close. In the end the boys turned back to him with smug looks plastered on their faces. "You can have the doll, if you can catch it," they said as James threw it back over to the other boy who John decided to call dickhead 2 with James as dickhead 1. He thought through his options given that he was much shorter than the boys so the doll wasn't exactly easy for him to grab, however one look at the young girl's teary eyed face made him harden his face in determination. He couldn't give up, he had to help her.

However, the question still remained as the boys moved around him tossing the doll between themselves, how was he supposed to get the doll. He was too short to be able to catch it while it was airborne and he knew that if he tried to stand in front of one of them to catch it that way the boys likely wouldn't throw the doll and keep it to themselves until he was out of the way. In short, he practically had no way to get the doll unless the boys dropped it or got sloppy. He knew that eventually they would've gotten sick of their game but now he was involved they seemed much more animated and excited to mess with him. He figured it was because he was in their year so they thought it would be fun to establish dominance or some bullshit like that.

As they threw the doll again he jumped up in vain to try and catch it. It was no surprise when the doll flew right over his head and he proved to short to grab it out of the air. This continued for sometime, the boys would throw the doll just above his reach and laugh as he would try to jump to get it. Their laughter grew louder as the young girl began to cry harder as her hope of getting her doll back diminished despite John's attempts to reassure her that he would find a way to get it back to her.

The confrontation ended much to his surprise with Sherlock stepping between them. At first none of them noticed his presence but of course, Sherlock would have none of that. He spoke calmly but surely. "Picking on your little sister again Ethan," his voice rang through the air causing dickhead 2, who he now knew as Ethan to pause his shot.

"What's it matter to you freaklock, it's not like you care about her anyway," Ethan retorted angrily as he hurled the doll towards James who barely managed to catch it. John swore he saw a glimpse of sadness flash across Sherlock's face but no sooner than he saw it, it was gone and replaced with an emotionless mask.

Sherlock sighed as he looked Ethan dead on, completely ignoring James' presence. Ethan barely caught the doll when James threw it back at him due to the intensity of Sherlock's stare. John recognised the look that Sherlock was giving him, it was the same one that had made him feel like a rat being studied in a lab.

"Doesn't it make you feel powerful to make her feel powerless," Sherlock's voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a knife. Ethan stumbled and dropped the doll upon hearing the words. John quickly ran for the doll and picked it up off of the ground. John offered the doll back to the girl who smiled at him as if he were the sun and muttered a quiet thank you before taking off. John smiled as he watched her leave.

"You don't know what you're talking about," James answered as he rushed to his friend's defense. Sherlock didn't react other than to sigh and take a step back. John wondered if he was about to leave but instead he opened his mouth and spoke at a speed that he didn't think was humanly possible. The thought that perhaps Sherlock was an alien crossed his mind again especially given what he said to the boys.

"Ethan, you'll never change, you were like this back in primary and you're still the same."

"You're still a freak, you know nothing about me!" Ethan shot back as quick as lightning.

"I'm aware of what I am Ethan, but at least I don't tear children down so I can feel better about myself. You only do it because you feel like you are weak, you crave power and the only way you know how to get it is to tear other people down. Your brother was the same towards you, he taught you that the only way forward in life was to be powerful and the only way to be powerful was to tear others down like he did to you. However, instead of learning from his mistakes that have left him friendless and being forced to yet again share a room with you, you decided to follow in dare big brothers footsteps. However, instead of risking it with our year group you decided to go after small children, how pathetic can you get Ethan?"

John could hardly process the information that came out of Sherlock's mouth. It seemed from one look at Ethan and James neither could they. James glared at Sherlock and hissed out between gritted teeth "how did you know that."

"Then there's you James, you only decided to go along with it because you're such good friends with Ethan over here that you can no longer tell right from wrong. Ethan manipulates you too you know, he got you into this mindset that tearing others down to make you feel better is okay. Now to answer your question, how do I know this, it's simple really. Ethan you have bags under your eyes so you clearly haven't been sleeping well, while that could be due to a number of things after your brother left home they faded and you seemed much more alert during class time instead of passing out onto your desk. While your bags could be due to stress, it seems far more likely that your brother has returned home, as to the reason judging by the fact that your eyes are red rimmed, the bullying habit hasn't disappeared which is what makes you feel so powerless, that feeling can be seen by how you hold yourself. You hunch over yourself and often seem to rub your hands together nervously, conclusion nervous, or more accurately powerless. You obviously felt better while tormenting them as your posture perked up and your eyes lit up, conclusion it makes you feel powerful judging by how tall you stood compared to normal. James sticks by you because he's your friend, that's what he thinks friends do, protect each other, am I right?"

John could hardly believe Sherlock's words, it sounded like complete and total bullshit to him, there was no way that he could've picked up on all of that so quickly. Yet from how they spoke to one another he guessed that they had probably known each other much longer than that so maybe they had been friends once which lead to Sherlock's knowledge of them. He expected them to laugh off the bullshit and tell Sherlock to stop making up lies but instead the colour drained from each other their faces.

"How dare you," Ethan yelled.  
"How dare you," Sherlock shrugged in response. Ethan growled and took off fuming, which was all the confirmation that John needed to know that Sherlock had been right. James stared at the pair for a minute then turned and ran after his friend. John turned to Sherlock in shock at what he had just heard.

"That was amazing," he exclaimed. Sherlock cocked his head to the side in obvious confusion at John's comment.

"That's not what people usually say," he said under his breath.

"What do people usually say," John couldn't help but wonder. He had figured that an ability that amazing likely had Sherlock being praised as a genius or child prodigy, hell even having people calling him an alien seemed more plausible than the clear surprise and confusion on Sherlock's face as a result of John's compliment. How could anyone not complement such an amazing ability, he wondered.

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock answered with a laugh. John couldn't help but join in, Sherlock's laughter was contagious. The answer certainly threw John, he guessed that people probably say it as in invasion of privacy rather than the incredible ability that it was.

"What can you tell about me," he wondered. Sherlock smiled and quickly began to speak at the incredibly fast pace he'd spoken at earlier.

"I can tell that you want to be a doctor, an army doctor even. You have an older sibling and own a small cat. You live at home with both of your parents even though you don't see your dad often and stress way too much about school, likely due to your desire to get into medical school. You also move around a lot as your father in part of the army."

"How did you know all of that," John asked surprised.

"The cat I know due to the fur that is all over your jumper, honestly John, you should wash that thing. It's a ginger cat that apparently really likes your jumper due to the amount of fur all over it. Next I can tell your desire to become a doctor because I watched you all day today the only time you seemed really interested was during the science classes where you would furiously scrawl down notes so quickly that you snapped a pen, so obviously worried about grades. You also have a strong desire to help people, judging by how quickly you stepped in to help that young girl despite not even being prompted. The desire to help people further reinforces my doctor assessment, however you are very logical and obviously strategic, I could practically see your brain turning as you tried to come with a plan to help the girl. When you were introduced to the class we got told that you had just moved here, you clearly already knew how the process would work so didn't appear phased so clearly you move around a lot. Why would you move around a lot as well as being hypervigilant of your surroundings, your father works in the army which explains why you don't see him often. You obviously want to make him proud so army doctor, you would make a good one by the way. The sister was a guess, it was from your phone. It's obviously a gift but not one that a parent would get you, it has a note on it which says 'to Harry from Sarah' Harry can't be your father or mother, it doesn't make sense for it to be that way especially if it was one of their phones they would've kept it to keep in contact with each other. So sibling. Sarah had to have been a girlfriend, if Harry gave the phone to you then the relationship recently ended so it was given to you, am I wrong?"

John stared at him in complete and utter shock. There was no way that this boy that he had barely known a full day knew almost his entire life story. He had to be kidding, he wondered if Harry had put him up to it. However, given that Sherlock seemed unable to place a gender on Harry it probably wasn't the case, unless he was trying to throw him off.

"Are you sure you didn't just google me," he asked. Sherlock looked scandalised at even the thought of that.

"I doubt you'd be the John Watson that would show up if I went to google you," he answered back.

"Well I'm sorry but you just told me my entire life story, what else was I supposed to think," he exclaimed. Sherlock just simply shrugged, "aren't you supposed to think I'm brilliant or are you going to tell me to piss off too, I wouldn't hold it against you."

He was shocked that Sherlock would even suggest that. There was no way that he thought he was anything but brilliant, there was probably nobody else on earth that could tell him his life story based on one look. How Sherlock didn't have more friends with a skill that amazing confused John to no end, maybe people didn't want to be friends with someone who could look at them and know everything about them. Yet what Sherlock had told him still stuck in his brain, he had warned him not to be his friend, what did he think would happen if they became friends he wondered.

"God no, that was brilliant Sherlock. I just can't help but wonder, why don't you have any friends? You told me not to be your friend, why?" The question was out in the air before he could stop himself.

"People don't generally like me," he said with a shrug.

"What's not to like," John exclaimed without thinking. He didn't quite know where the comment had come from, he hadn't even known him 24 hours who was he to make comments like that. However a small part of him knew that there was something special about this boy, it drew him to him despite his rude display in class.

Sherlock looked at him like he was expecting him to continue, like he was expecting the punchline of a joke. It was obvious that he clearly didn't believe John's words. "Are you serious," he asked.

"Of course," John answered with a smile.

"I am apparently the 'human embodiment of what would happen if a prick and an asshole had a child which amplified those traits by 5000%,'" the way Sherlock said the words that anybody else would've found incredibly hurtful sounded detached and almost clinical in nature. He couldn't help but wonder how often he had to have heard the words to say them in such a way without seeming even remotely affected by it.

"Who told you that?"

Sherlock laughed at the question. "The British government," he said as if it were a joke.

"Who," the odd name had to be some sort of strange nickname because as far as John knew there wasn't a person on earth actually named 'The British government,' of course he could've been wrong with people naming their children things like Apple, Java and Hellzel. However, he seriously doubted the existence of a person named that.

"The queen of England," Sherlock began leaving a dramatic pause, "my brother."

Wow, John thought, Sherlock's brother had to be an even bigger dick than he was. He also wondered what he had done for Sherlock to refer to him as the british government and the queen of England. He knew that over his lifetime he had had some strange nicknames such as 'hedgehog', 'hobbit on crack,' and the weirdest of all 'sentient shrub.' Yet the british government seemed very different to any nickname he had ever heard so he wondered where it came from. Before he could ask him about it Sherlock's phone went off loudly playing all star. He never thought that Sherlock could be one with the memes.

Sherlock answered the phone without hesitation and as soon as the speaker spoke his eyes had lit up light fairy lights. He smiled like a kid on christmas day, it was almost unnerving how quickly he had gone from being a dramatic asshole to a small child excited about something. He was practically bounding where he stood as he spoke to the phone person. "Be right there," he exclaimed excitedly. As soon as he put the phone down he spun around on the spot and was about to dash off into the distance.

"What was that about," John asked upon seeing his sudden change in demeanor. What had happened to the dramatic asshole he had been talking to mere minutes ago.

"They finally gave up, that means I get to help," Sherlock exclaimed as he jumped up and down obviously rearing to go.

"Help with what," John asked in confusion.

"The murders duh," Sherlock exclaimed.

John took a double take. Had he really just said 'murders?' Was his new friend a serial killer he wondered. Yet why would Sherlock be a serial killer, sure he seemed to get annoyed by almost every human he came in contact with but he didn't seem like the kind of person who would kill them. Yet he guessed that he really didn't know a lot about his new friend. He could've been planning to take over the world for all John knew.

"Are you a murderer," John asked. He knew it was probably not the best idea to ask a potential murderer about their murderous intentions but Sherlock just looked at him as if he were an idiot.

"No,I solve murders," he corrected absentmindedly. That made a bit more sense than the murderer theory. Actually no it didn't, who hired a 16 year old to help with murders, no matter how god damn brilliant they were.

"You've seen a lot of danger, a lot of trouble, am I right?"

John looked at him wondering if he was doing the whole 'i can stare at you and know your entire life story thing' again with him.

"Yes, enough for a lifetime," he responded. Sherlock's eyes lit up yet again and he held out his hand for him.

"Want to see some more?"

God grabbed his outstretched hand without a second's hesitation. "Oh god yes."


	3. Just friends

It was only when Sherlock lead him to an active crime scene complete with the 'police line do not cross' tape that John realised that he really had no clue what he was getting into. He knew nothing about crime solving or what he was even getting into. He had followed Sherlock on a whim and it seemed like the whim was going to possibly get him killed. He couldn't really see the crime scene except for the yellow tape sealing it off and the officers guarding it. He guessed that it had to be inside.

One of the officers, a woman with long curly brown hair and dark skin came up to them with a very unamused look on her face. John prepared himself to have to apologize for himself and his friend before running away with his tail between his legs, instead, she just stopped and glared at Sherlock, completely ignoring John's presence.

"What are you doing here," she spat out. Part of John expected Sherlock to come up with some long grand deduction of her life story that would likely end with him getting punched in the face, instead he just lifted the crime scene tape for him and smiled at the woman.

"I was invited," he said no charted as John hesitantly stepped under the police tape.

"Why," she growled out.

"I think they want me to take a look," he answered his voice sounding like he knew he already had the argument won.

"Well you know what I think," She said as he slipped under the rope. He smirked back at her as he turned to leave.

"Always Sally."

He turned around and walked off in the direction that John assumed the crime was. John followed after him, feeling sort of like a lost child. Everything seemed bigger and he was on high alert given his unfamiliar surroundings. Sherlock began to lead him into a building when a police officer stopped them. He looked at John and Sherlock with piercing green eyes. Sherlock let out a very audible sigh upon encountering the man, John guessed by his reaction that he wasn't particularly fond of the man.

"Who is this," he asked as he glared at John with a look that could kill.

"What does it matter to you Anderson," Sherlock snapped back. He matched Anderson's piercing glare with one of his own. John shifted from foot to foot as he found himself caught in between the two men's staring match.

"I'm his boyfriend," he answered the question. Both of their eyes widened and he could've sworn that he could've heard a pin drop. He looked at Sherlock helplessly wondering what he had said wrong. Suddenly it clicked and his face turned bright red in seconds. If he wasn't in a public place he would've crawled into a hole and died from the embarrassment of his slip up. "I meant friend, buddy, pal, mate, comrade," John exclaimed in a rush to fix his mistake.

Instead of thanking him for fixing his mistake like he thought Sherlock should've done, instead, he just glared at John, "John, stop talking." He immediately shut his mouth before he could make it worse. He knew that he probably already had due to the smug grin on Anderson's face as well as his obvious attempts not to burst out laughing. Despite not knowing a thing about the man John decided that he already didn't like him. Anderson seemed like a dick, yet a lot of people that day seemed to be having that impression on him. Perhaps London was just filled with a lot of dicks.

Sherlock stepped past Anderson without saying another word and walked inside. John quickly followed after him. The first thing he was met with upon entering the building was the wretched smell of blood. It was so strong that he was almost sure he was swimming in a sea of it. He forced himself to take another step, and then another. He couldn't be afraid of the smell if he wanted to be a doctor or join the army he rationalised. The next thing he noticed was overturned furniture and broken tables. It didn't take a genius, or even a proper detective to work out that some kind of struggle had taken place between the victim and the attacker.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and much to John's surprise walked over to the wall and straightened one of the pictures on it. He wondered what was so important about the picture. A new voice behind him almost caused John to jump right out of his skin, "Sherlock, what are you doing, I asked you to look at the body, not her art," he exclaimed. Sherlock turned around, instead of wearing a pissed off expression, he instead lit up like a Christmas tree and followed after the man who John assumed to be another detective.

John followed after him as he didn't really have much else to do. He found himself met with a scene that looked straight out of a horror movie. There were bloodstains all over the walls and the carpet surrounding the dead body who appeared to be a teenage girl. Her blonde hair had been torn and matted, likely during with her fight with the attacker. Not only was her hair messed up but her clothes and skin were covered in rips, large chunks had been ripped out of her skin and it was lifeless. If he didn't know any better he would've assumed that she had been mauled by a wild animal.

He had to fight the urge to retch while Sherlock animatedly began inspecting the body like it was a new toy. While most of John wanted to retch and lose his lunch another part of him was excited to see what Sherlock would make of the scene with his practical superpower. Sherlock was eerily quiet as he inspected the body carefully without even laying a finger on it. He didn't disappoint as he began to speak yet again at top speed as he sprouted off seemingly random facts about the girl who lay on the ground before them.

"She's in her first year of high school and doesn't have that many friends, this I know due to the single photo on the wall of her with a friend, while she could have more photos in her room to have only one hanging in the middle of the living space, it is obvious that they must've been close and why have the photo hanging when you have plenty of ones of others, conclusion, social outcast. Next, her killer was not somebody she knew, that is obvious by the amount of destruction around the flat, if it was a person she knew then she wouldn't have tried to get away and they would've taken the element of surprise and likely killed her much more effectively. While it is possible that she did know them, the balance of probability suggests that she didn't. Also look at her hair, despite the state it's in, she clearly would never have had somebody she knew over with her hair in that state, her clothes are perfectly coordinated as well as her makeup, she clearly would never have let anybody see her with such messy hair that couldn't have only been caused by the tussle. Despite the fact she didn't know her attacker she or somebody else let them in, there is no sign of a forced entry so that also rules out the possibility of an animal attack despite the obvious precautions that the killer made to make it look like one."

John starred on in amazement at Sherlock's speech. "Incredible," he whispered. Sherlock beamed at him upon hearing his response, "you really think so?"

"Of course."

"What do you think," he asked surprising the crap out of him. He was honestly surprised that he could still be surprised by anything Sherlock did at this point. It seemed like every 10 minutes there was a new trick up his sleeve.

"The attacker liked horror movies," he said in response. It was all he could think of as he stared at the scene. Sherlock and the detective both stared at him with a look that he couldn't decipher. "I may not be a detective like you two, but I know my movies. The girl is a stereotypical horror movie victim and the scene fits exactly what you would expect from a monster killing," he answered as he trailed off awkwardly.

"So we're looking for a fan of horror movies, wow that really narrows it down," the detective said sarcastically.

Sherlock glared at the detective angrily. "I'm sorry, I forgot that before we showed up you knew exactly who the killer was and their motives for killing this innocent woman, right Lestrade," Sherlock said with his voice dripping in sarcasm. The detective, who John now knew to be called Lestrade, rolled his eyes at his comment as if he was merely dissing his shoes. John really began to wonder how often Sherlock made comments like that towards the London police force.

A part of John was surprised at how Sherlock had defended his rather pitiful attempt at a deduction, in truth Lestrade had been right to be sarcastic about it, it wasn't anything like Sherlock's incredible analysis of the body that could rival an English teacher's analysis of a film. In comparison, John would be the kid who failed the essay while Sherlock got top marks, yet John had a feeling that he would actually be incredibly bad at English and spectacularly fail at it.

Lestrade suddenly seemed more interested in Sherlock and John than the dead body in front of them. John wondered if he was just now realising that he was, in fact, not supposed to be at the crime scene. He began to shift nervously as he shot Sherlock a look of please help. However, Sherlock completely failed to catch John's desperate look as he had taken to looking at the murder scene in front of them yet again.

"Sherlock," Lestrade began to catch the man's attention. Sherlock whirled around with the speed of a bullet to face Lestrade. He looked at him expectantly as if he had something very important to say about the case. If John was being honest he was also interested in what the man had to say. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend," he said with a hint of a smile.

John fought the urge to take a step back in shock at hearing the statement. He knew that he had accidentally introduced himself as Sherlock's boyfriend, but that had just been a slip of the tongue, which to be frank he had no clue where it had even come from. Now that he had heard it come out of Lestrade's mouth the words felt that much more real, it felt like they meant something other than being meaningless words floating through space. He looked at Sherlock to try and gauge how he had reacted to hearing the words, however, his face was blank as he stared at Lestrade with a look as if he was trying to decide if he was joking.

"He's not my boyfriend," Sherlock answered sounding confused. Part of John wondered if he even knew what the word boyfriend meant given how confused he looked as he said it. John found himself nodding along with Sherlock's words. However, something about the confirmation of the truth made him feel like something was amiss. Despite the truth of the words part of him wanted to believe that they weren't. He couldn't understand where the feeling was coming from, let alone why he was having it. "He's just my," Sherlock trailed off as he tried to think of the right word.

"Friend," John finished. "We're just friends," he said again as he tried to silence the part of himself that wanted to cry upon hearing the words coming out of his mouth. They felt wrong and foreign on his lips. "I'm not gay," he said to back up his point. He meant the words, he was sure that he wasn't gay, he had never had feelings for another man before in his life. There was no way he even could be gay, he told himself. However, that did nothing to silence the part of him, no matter how small, that was upset at the dismissal of them as boyfriends, no matter how untrue it was.

Suddenly, as if a lightbulb had been flicked on in his head Sherlock jumped up and down like a spring. John was shocked at how quickly his personality changed from the serious aloof man to a toddler on a sugar high. At an almost dizzying speed, Sherlock raced out of the room without a word leaving Lestrade and John in confusion. John couldn't help but stare dumbstruck at his friend. He looked to Lestrade in case he had some kind of idea as to why Sherlock had just suddenly left.

Lestrade just sighed as he looked at the space where Sherlock had been standing seconds ago. "He does that," he said as if it explained everything. That was the second time that day John had been told that every single person just seemed to be fine with Sherlock just up and leaving without even a word as to why it was strange. John sighed and moved to leave but Lestrade grabbed his wrist before he could.

"Who are you to him," he asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"What do you mean, I'm his friend," John answered awkwardly. There was that word again, friend. Despite the fact he hadn't even known Sherlock a full 24 hours the word friend to describe their relationship didn't feel right at all. It just felt wrong, they weren't just friends, were they? He knew that they were but he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming feeling of it being wrong as he heard the word repeated from his own mouth yet again. When Lestrade had called them boyfriends, something in him had felt like that was right and he couldn't explain why. He barely knew Sherlock so there was no way that he could possibly have a crush on him, was there?

"He doesn't have friends," Lestrade responded.

"He does now," John answered firmly as he turned to leave. Lestrade didn't even try to stop him, in fact, none of the officers did. As he made his way home he couldn't help but mull over Lestrade's words, what had he meant that Sherlock didn't have friends. He thought to himself, that no matter how wrong the word felt to describe their relationship that barely even existed, that he would do everything in his power to make sure that Sherlock had friends, even if it was only him. They were friends, just friends.


	4. The police don't consult amateurs

When John went to class the next morning he felt like he had been hit by a truck. He had barely gotten an hours sleep that night as his mind had been unable to stop thinking about the asshole in a trenchcoat, also known as Sherlock Holmes, his friend. He didn't know why he had been unable to sleep, or why his mind had seemed to fixate on the events of his first day that revolved around one Sherlock Holmes, but it did. When his mind hadn't been on his newfound friend, it had been on the horrific images he had seen at the crime scene that would've been enough to make a grown man pee his pants. He knew that many crime scenes probably looked ten times worse than the one he had seen, but in his defense, it's completely different seeing bloody corpses and animal attacks on the TV than seeing them in person.

Sherlock at the crime scene had seemed like a completely different person than the Sherlock he had introduced himself to that morning, yet he was also too similar. At school, he gave off the vibe that he could care less about the boring dribble that their teachers spouted, but at the crime scene he had turned into a hyperactive child. The shift would've been almost amusing if it hadn't been because of a dead body. He again found himself wondering about his friend. Why would the police invite a teenager to their crime scene and not even react when they acted like a sarcastic asshole to everyone and took off suddenly without a rhyme or reason. Yet it was obvious that the police knew him to do this given how unphased Lestrade had seemed at Sherlock's sudden exit.

He looked around the classroom and noticed that everyone was invested in their own conversations and that the teacher had yet to arrive. He was thankful for the teacher's late arrival, while it would be his first physics lesson at the new school, if the teacher was anything like the maths teacher then he would've screamed. He decided to make the most of his time in the teacherless class and finally get some answers from Sherlock.

He turned to look at him, but Sherlock already had his gaze fixed on him, analyzing him like an English book. John wondered if he knew what he was thinking, but then he figured that was impossible. Despite Sherlock's incredible deductions, there was no way that he could figure out John's thoughts, right? "Let me guess, you're wondering why the police are bothering to allow a teenager to look at their crime scenes," he asked out of the blue. Nevermind, John thought, obviously Sherlock can do the impossible and read his mind. He wondered if perhaps he was telepathic, or an alien, or just an incredibly smart prick. The last one seemed the most feasible.

"Yes," he confirmed before continuing awkwardly, "it's just that," he trailed off. Sherlock looked at him pointedly as if urging him to continue. However, John wasn't sure if he wanted to finish the sentence. He had no clue how Sherlock would react to it and he didn't want to lose his friend just because of a simple slip up. Sherlock gestured for him to hurry up and continue. "It's just that the police don't consult amateurs."

To his surprise, Sherlock did not look offended or immediately take back the friendship they had formed, so he guessed that it was a win. Sherlock scoffed at John's words as if to say, him an amateur, as if! That he had expected, what he didn't expect was for Sherlock to abruptly start laughing, most likely at how ridiculous he thought John's statement was. John didn't know if he should immediately try to take back his words or if he should laugh alongside him. He decided to just stay silent and wait for Sherlock to probably insult him.

"I could tell you your life story just by looking at you, do you really think that I'm an amateur," he questioned sounding disdainful. He had a point there, John thought. Especially given the deductions he'd been able to make about the dead girl at the scene, whether they were accurate or not he didn't know. Sherlock looked around the classroom as if to find a way to prove his point. At that moment the teacher walked in and Sherlock stood up from his seat and pointedly stared at the teacher. John mentally facepalmed, he had a feeling that he knew exactly where this was going.

"Do you have a problem, Mr. Holmes," she asked sounding tired and worn out. Sherlock just smiled that same look he'd had the day before just before he'd told the boys their life stories.

"How did your husband react when he found out," he asked abruptly. The teacher responded by staring at him with a look of pure and absolute shock. He could practically see her brain turning as she tried to think of how the hell a student had figured out whatever it was Sherlock meant.

"That's none of your business Mr. Holmes," she answered sounding very annoyed at his blatant disregard for her privacy.

"I'm guessing negatively, given how tired you seem today. Don't worry, he was having an affair as well, so it's not like he has a justifiable reason to be mad at you for doing the exact same thing. You should break up with him, you'd be far happier with your new girlfriend."

The teacher looked halfway between like she was about to cry and like she was about to punch him in the face. Given what Sherlock had just exposed about her John figured that he probably deserved the later. Friends or not, what Sherlock had said was uncalled for and had likely embarrassed the poor woman.

"Just do page 56 of the book," she replied angrily as she sat down in her seat and pulled out her phone. John looked at flabbergasted. From her tone of voice, it was obvious that Sherlock had been right about everything he had said, how he knew it was beyond him though. Just as he was about to ask him Sherlock answered it for him. However, this time it wasn't for the entire class to hear but for John's ears only.

"I knew she was having an affair because of her wedding ring," Sherlock began.

"Her wedding ring," John asked confused.

"Yes, her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. I knew about her husband's affair because she complains about him never being home constantly and I saw them together one day after school, he wasn't wearing his ring. While that could've indicated that he just doesn't like rings, given the state of her ring as well it is clear that they didn't have a happy marriage which led me to assume an affair. Now her own affair being with another woman I knew because of every few minutes in class she is smiling at her phone like a dork, so new relationship, still in the honeymoon phase. I've also seen her with the woman in school, they are very touchy feely towards each other and give each other the lovey-dovey looks daily, it's quite sappy really."

John stared at him with his mouth open, yet again flabbergasted by Sherlock's deductions. He swore that their whole relationship would be based on Sherlock making incredible deductions while John stood to the side staring at him bug-eyed and flabbergasted at his genius. That's what it felt like it would be at least. Sherlock smiled at him, "you were right."

"What," John asked absentmindedly. What was he right about, he wondered. He couldn't remember what he had said to Sherlock that had been right, or what he had even said in general. He had been too wrapped up in listening to his voice as he spoke with butterflies gathering in his stomach. He still didn't understand why he was getting butterflies as they were just friends, no matter how strange the word felt. Why would he have butterflies just listening to his friend talk?

"The police don't consult amateurs."

* * *

Throughout the day John kept finding himself getting butterflies in his stomach whenever he and Sherlock spoke and he simply couldn't explain it. He was almost sure that that only really happened before going into exams or when talking to pretty girls, why it was happening around his friend he had no clue. He tried to dismiss it but he couldn't, it was just too strange.

Not only did he get butterflies when he heard Sherlock speak but he also became captivated by his every word no matter how boring his rant about the mating habits of platypuses, (platypi? platypodes?), had been. No matter how boring the rant he hung on every single word. Which was what made him feel so confused, normally he would be half asleep or completely zoned out upon hearing about the swimming patterns of starfish but for some reason, he couldn't stop listening.

In 4th period, which was maths with the damn teacher who kept going on about algebra in calculus, he found himself zoning out. Who could blame him really when the teacher wouldn't stop ranting about the moon landing despite it having nothing to do with maths in any way shape or form. Well, it involved physics but that wasn't what they were meant to be learning but apparently, Mrs whatever her name was, Mrs boring as hell, didn't care. He looked over at Sherlock with the intent to talk to him but instead saw his friend with his head down on his desk looking like he had fallen asleep. From what he knew about Sherlock he guessed that wasn't the case but really who knew.

He wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was sleeping, half the class had fallen asleep in the first ten minutes of the lesson. The girl from yesterday who had tried to escape out the window appeared to be eyeing up her escape route yet again, and honestly, John didn't blame her. He was very close to joining her in escaping through the window. However, he thought better of it given it was his second day and Mrs boring as hell already hated him enough as it was. So he decided to pull out his notebook and at least try to do some maths or something. Anything but listen to the lecture about the moon landing, which would normally have been interesting but with her giving it, it was the furthest thing from interesting.

He reached into his bag to pull out his notebook, which was black exactly like Sherlock's. He had forgotten he had Sherlock's notebook in fact so when he pulled a black notebook out of his bag he didn't even bother to check who's it was. Instead, he flicked through the pages until he saw one with no writing on it. He opened the maths workbook and began to copy the notes from it, but quickly found his thoughts running away from him as he chanced a glance at his possibly sleeping friend.

His hair looked really hot like that. Where had that thought come from, he wondered. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have amazing hair but he never thought it would be something that he would mentally call 'hot.' His thoughts went on a tangent completely unrelated to the maths version of it. Instead, they spiraled down the path of Sherlock Holmes. It was dumb, they hadn't known each other long and they were just friends.

Yet he still couldn't shake the feeling he'd had the day before when he had said those words for himself. They had felt so wrong and out of place, like fiction. The word friend didn't feel nearly adequate to describe their budding relationship, yet there wasn't a better word to use. Despite the fact John had felt a sense of rightness when Lestrade had referred to them as boyfriends, he knew that that didn't nearly begin to explain them. For starters, they weren't dating and had only known each other a day. Not only that but John was a very straight man, he was as straight as a ruler.

His mind replayed the look of excitement on Sherlock's face as he tried to solve the murder, he had seemed like a small child and frankly it was adorable. Well if it hadn't been about the murder at least. He looked at Sherlock and wondered if perhaps he was thinking about the case or if he'd stayed up too late and had simply fallen asleep. It was logical after all, he had been up half the night and he too wished he could simply fall asleep on his desk.

He tried to force himself to focus on copying the maths notes and not Sherlock. Hell even focusing on the moon landing lecture could be better than being consumed by his thoughts about Sherlock. He looked down at his notebook to figure out where he was up to in the notes, however, instead of a page full of math notes, only half the page was full of maths and the rest of it was covered in doodles of hearts. He looked at the hearts and flushed red, not only were they all over the page but a couple of them even had JW & SH written within them. He was glad that nobody would ever see the page, but he still couldn't help but feel flustered. What if someone did see the hearts all over the notebook and think that he had a crush on Sherlock Holmes. Seriously, as if! They had known each other a day!

He looked at the hearts again and then back at Sherlock. When he looked back at the notebook more hearts had filled the page. What was he, a lovesick teenage girl from some cheesy romantic film? He slammed the notebook shut and stuffed it back into his bag before anybody could see the cheesy hearts that littered the page. Even Mrs boring's lecture would be better than that fate.

Sherlock suddenly sat up and smiled at him as if he had realised something important. He didn't appear to even realise that the teacher was still talking or that he was supposed to be doing maths, or learning about the moon landing, John wasn't really sure at that point. Sherlock leaned over towards him without a care in the world. He didn't even bother to try and be quiet as he held out his hand and said to him, "can I have my notebook back?"

John nodded and looked through his bag to find the black notebook that belonged to his friend. He seized a black notebook and quickly skimmed the pages to confirm that it was Sherlock's. It was filled with mad scribbles and barely legible handwriting so he figured that it almost certainly belonged to Sherlock. John's handwriting was far better than Sherlock's cross between cursive and a child learning to write's. Honestly, Sherlock was a lot of things, and one of those things was certainly in need of handwriting lessons.

Sherlock took his notebook back with a smile and skimmed through the pages until he found an empty one. He stopped briefly and gave John a strange look as he looked at one of them. He wondered why Sherlock was looking at him as if he had suddenly sprouted wings over a single page in a notebook. He figured that he had probably just written something down that made him think of John. Sherlock nodded his thanks to him, still with the strange look fixed on his face. He began to furiously scribble in the book which left John yet again alone with his thoughts and the teachers monotone voice.

He thought back to the hearts in the notebook with JW & SH written within them and wondered where they had come from. They seemed almost as random as the sudden butterflies he kept getting in his stomach whenever Sherlock spoke to him. He wondered if perhaps he was getting sick or something. Then it hit him like a bullet, it wasn't sickness he was experiencing. He had a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

Fuck.


	5. No phones!

When Sherlock got his notebook back, he had made sure to skim through it to be sure that it was, in fact, his own notebook and that John hadn't for some reason tampered with his notes. Why he would've, he didn't know, but one could never be too careful. As he scanned through the notebook he saw a glimpse of something that he had most certainly not written in himself. Instead of his own messy scrawl was very neatly written loopy handwriting. To Sherlock, it resembled how lovesick teenagers wrote in the movie complete with i's dotted with hearts. For a second he wondered if John had a sister who had for some reason had his notebook, but he quickly dismissed the thought, because why would John have given them his notebook in the first place.

His eyes rested on the page, at first glance all he saw was boring maths notes, which he assumed John had taken assuming Sherlock's book was his own. That was something that surprised him, wouldn't John have noticed their strikingly different handwriting styles, while he wasn't nearly as good as Sherlock at deduction, surely he could tell the difference between his own handwriting and Sherlock's.

He took a closer look at the page and noticed the hearts that littered it. He was disappointed in himself for having not noticed something so strikingly obvious sooner. He was supposed to be a detective for crying out loud, how had he not noticed the hearts. He looked at John in confusion as he tried to figure out why they had been drawn all over the page. Did John have a crush on someone he wondered, or perhaps John was a teenage girl at heart and just loved doodling hearts all over someone else's notebook. He nodded thanks to John before he began to furiously scribble on the page beside it.

He didn't really write anything important, or much of anything, his mind was too preoccupied with the doodled hearts and loopy handwriting that belonged to John. He saw that in a few of the hearts JW & SH had been written in them. He wondered who SH was supposed to be, perhaps a secret girlfriend? No, he would have figured that out sooner, he would've known if John was in a relationship, his body language would've given him away in seconds. So not a relationship then, perhaps he had a crush on someone? However, Sherlock didn't know a single another person at their school with the initials SH other than himself. Perhaps John's crush didn't go to their school and he had just zoned out thinking about them.

SH. The initials sat there mocking him. He was meant to be a detective, the world's only consulting detective, yet he couldn't figure out SH's identity based on those two letters. He guessed that maybe SH could've been him but that didn't make sense. He had only known John a day and he'd basically been his usual asshole self the entire time, there was no way that John would have fallen for him based off of that. Yet he had written it in Sherlock's notebook, perhaps he was trying to tell him something. He wondered if John was trying to tell him that he did have a crush on him by writing that in his notebook surrounded by all of the little hearts.

That still didn't make sense though. There was no way that John liked him, right? They were friends. He knew that friends didn't feel like the right word to describe their relationship, even if it was only as that, but he lacked a better word to use. They were just friends. But if John had filled Sherlock's notebook with heart doodles perhaps he wanted to be more, maybe he did have a crush on him. However, that didn't seem possible. Sherlock was a self-proclaimed asshole, who would have a crush on him? Yet if SH wasn't him, then who could they be he wondered. Maybe SH was another crush like he had previously hypothesised, but then why would John have written it all over his notebook.

What if John was trying to tell him something. What if John thought he had a crush on him and it was his way of telling him that he had feelings for someone else. He knew that he had been drawn to John when he had first introduced himself, but he also knew that he hadn't wanted to get close to him. He had known that he would have somehow dragged John headfirst into danger and he didn't want to let him get hurt. Something about John made him not want to let him get hurt. It drew him to him, like metal to a magnet except, unlike magnetism he didn't know why. Magnetism followed laws, it had physics and reasons behind it, his attraction towards John had none of those. It was illogical, it had no rhyme or reason, yet somehow he couldn't deny it.

He liked John, despite his feeble attempt to put John off being his friend, he had remained keen. That was one of the things he liked so much about him, he was stubborn. Not only that but he hadn't immediately balked at his deductions or told him to piss off, instead he had appeared enamoured by them. There was a certain quality to John Watson that everyone else simply seemed to lack. It wasn't that he was the only person who cared, a lot of people had the capacity to care, but John seemed to be the only one willing to offer it. John wasn't anything like the rest of their peers and one look had told him that much. He didn't run in the face of danger, he didn't back down when people were in need, he was a good person. It was qualities like that that drew Sherlock towards him in a way he'd never been drawn to anyone before.

His eyes were drawn to the words on the paper and he couldn't help but wonder what they meant. What the dorky hearts meant and what the SH & JW meant. He looked at the page he had been scribbling on and saw that he hadn't written much of anything. In fact, it was an incomprehensible scribble aside from 5 letters. SH & JW. He stared at the initials he had written out, unlike John's version they weren't surrounded by love hearts, but it didn't change the fact that he had written them on the page. He felt his cheeks flush red with embarrassment as he looked at them. Unlike John's version that could have meant anything, Sherlock had no clue why he'd written the initials out but he could make a guess. If anybody else had found out he'd have sworn that he was just copying the ones on the other page, that it was for a case, or even that somebody had stolen his notebook and written them. However, as he looked at them he had a very clear idea as to why he'd written them out.

It was unlike when he looked at John's version of the initials. While John's version painted a very clear picture that he loved somebody, it didn't explain who. All John's version served to do was confuse him as to the meaning, he didn't know if it was some sort of secret message, if it was a hint that he liked him or a hint that he didn't. He really didn't know but he was almost sure that the words John had written had been intentional. His own, however, hadn't been, it had just sort of happened.

While Sherlock wasn't a very affectionate person, he didn't believe in senseless romances that appeared in the movies, he didn't believe in love at first sight, but he was able to deduce. From the letters on the page, it didn't take much to deduce what they meant. While he hadn't known John long, he knew a lot about him, he could look at somebody and deduce their life story so of course, he did. He knew that John Watson had some mystical force related to him that drew Sherlock in. He knew what his scrolled out letters meant, exactly what they meant. They meant that much to his dismay, he liked John Watson. He tried to avoid love, he'd deemed it unnecessary in the grand scheme of things, he'd decided that all that tattered was solving the cases. Apparently, his brain hadn't agreed with his assessment because as he looked at the letters only one deduction came to mind. He liked John Watson.

Fuck.

* * *

John decided to at least attempt to put his newfound crush on his friend on the back burner. He knew that the chances of Sherlock liking him back were probably very slim, so there was no point in pursuing him. He decided to just try to make it through the day, and then the next. Maybe one day he'd tell Sherlock but he hoped that his crush would dissipate long before he reached that point. One moon landing lecture and rant about the horror tropes in Coraline later and they were finally free to go to lunch. The two of them had decided to go out for lunch as Sherlock had said that he'd rather not be surrounded by morons and idiots who couldn't tell their left from their right. John was thankful that Sherlock hadn't grouped him into that category, no matter how insulting it was of him to have done to their classmates.

They went out to a small cafe five minutes down the road from the school. John ordered a jam tart and a coffee, while Sherlock just ordered a cup of tea. It surprised John that Sherlock hadn't ordered any food, especially given that he had been the one to suggest going in the first place. "Aren't you going to get anything to eat," he asked.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side with a look that made John feel like he was an idiot. It was the same kind of look that Sherlock had given their teachers and the detectives at the crime scene. That look of 'are you really that dumb.' John mentally groaned, we can't all be as smart as Sherlock Holmes he thought angrily. "Eating means digesting and digestion slows down my brain."

Now it was John's turn to give Sherlock the 'you're an idiot' look. He may not be a doctor yet but he did know that eating was necessary for survival and fueling the brain. Honestly, Sherlock should've known that he took biology, he was a genius. How did he not know? How did he not know that the glucose in food gets turned into energy that is used to fuel the body, and that happened when the body digests the food. Honestly for a genius, Sherlock sure was an idiot.

"It slows your brain," John repeated, his voice somewhere between monotone and mocking. Sherlock nodded to confirm his point. "Are you serious, without food your brain has no fuel, if anything food would speed up your brain," John pointed out.

"I'm aware that the body requires glucose in order to create energy to fuel it, that is why I have so much sugar in my tea, sugar is made up of glucose so it can fuel my body." John mentally facepalmed, because Sherlock was sort of right. Sugar was made up of glucose but he was pretty sure that he would need more than a few spoonfuls of sugar to fuel his massive intellect.

"You can't just live off of sugar filled tea," John exclaimed. Sherlock laughed at that. His laugh made John begin to wonder if he had just been messing with him the entire time. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't really crazy and just had a bizarre and confusing sense of humour.

"I don't, I only do it when there's a case, digestion takes up valuable energy that could be better used in solving the crime." John didn't know what to make of that information. On one hand he was thankful that Sherlock didn't usually starve himself of food but then again the regular starvation periods that happened whenever Sherlock was on a case couldn't be good for him. While he had no clue how often he got them, it didn't seem like it was good to be doing what he was doing even if it was just for this one case.

However, he could vaguely see Sherlock's point. Digestion did require energy but it also created energy. He could vaguely understand Sherlock's thought process related to the issue, if he didn't eat then his body wouldn't waste energy on digestion and it would all be diverted to his brain in theory. The more energy his brain had the quicker the crime would be solved. It made a weird amount of sense, but that didn't change the fact that it was not only bullshit but that it also was incredibly bad for his health.

"You need to eat Sherlock," he pressed as he finally took in how thin his friend actually was. Sherlock was basically a walking stick figure in a trench coat with how skinny he was.

"Maybe later, I'm not hungry," Sherlock answered dismissively. John knew that there was no way he could force Sherlock to do anything, let alone eat when he clearly didn't want to. He decided to let the matter drop as he bit into his heavenly tasting jam tart. They sat in silence as John ate his tart and as Sherlock drank his overly sugary tea. He really didn't know how he could handle a tea that sweet, John could barely handle one sugar in his tea let alone the mountain of it that Sherlock seemed to use.

Once his jam tart, that had to have been created by the gods themselves, was finished John decided that it would be the perfect opportunity to find out more about his friend. "So, what do you do for fun," he asked awkwardly. He cringed as he heard the words come out of his mouth, wow, he thought, is that really the best you can do. He could've asked about anything, but instead he asked that. He hoped that at least Sherlock would tell him something he didn't already know about him as an answer.

"I play the violin," Sherlock answered with a shrug. John looked at him in surprise, he had never pegged Sherlock as somebody who would play an instrument. He knew that it actually made perfect sense for him to do but yet it still seemed like something Sherlock wouldn't do. It seemed even stranger given that he'd found out that Sherlock pegged eating as something trivial and useless, he would've assumed that he would have pegged music as the same but nope.

"That's cool, I used to play-" John began before Sherlock cut him off. John knew that he was about to say the correct instrument before he even said it.

"Clarinet, right?" John just nodded, he wouldn't admit it but he was actually really eager to find out how exactly Sherlock had figured such an obscure fact out. Nobody he had ever met had ever been able to guess that, so how Sherlock had figured it out was beyond him.

"I knew it had to be a wind instrument by how long you can hold your breath, you unconsciously hold it quite often ang given the amount of time you hold it for indicates that you have a large lung capacity and as you aren't a swimmer or a sports player a wind instrument is the only solution. That significantly narrows done the possible instruments to choose from. You don't pucker your lips the way any other wind instrument player would other than a clarinet so logically you must play the clarinet."

John wondered when he had puckered his lips that Sherlock had seen but quickly dismissed the thought. He was amazed at Sherlock's reasoning, even if he didn't know how it worked. How on earth had Sherlock known he didn't do sport, but that was a question for another day. He smiled and complimented his friend for his incredible abilities, however, his compliment seemed to fuel Sherlock to begin telling John his deductions about other random customers in the cafe. While it was amazing, John couldn't help but zone out during it as his body fought to stay awake. There was no doubt that it was interesting, he was just exhausted and didn't particularly feel like listening to people's life stories.

So instead of listening he subtly stole Sherlock's phone. He was surprised that he hadn't noticed when it disappeared from right in front of him, but he guessed that he was too wrapped up in his deductions. He was surprised to find that Sherlock's phone was not password protected, however, after opening the phone he realised why. There was almost nothing on the phone other than people's phone numbers. It was strikingly different to John's collection of social media apps that he had on his phone. He was a little disappointed to find that Sherlock had nothing to really mess with on his phone, he couldn't hack into the social media that wasn't there and make a dumb post and he couldn't text any of the numbers something strange as who knew who they belonged to, especially given one was listed as the queen of England. John wondered if it was the actual queen or Sherlock's brother that he had mentioned in passing as the queen of England. Knowing Sherlock it could really be either.

He ignored the list of numbers and decided to instead change Sherlock's settings. He opened up the ringtone option and found that Sherlock had a disappointing amount of music on his phone to choose from. The options were either classical, the periodic table song or All star. He still didn't quite know why Sherlock had all star on his phone, he went with his theory that Sherlock was secretly one with the memes because it was funny to imagine Sherlock in a room full of meme's calling them his precious. Okay, maybe that was over the top but in his defense so was Sherlock.

He groaned as he looked through Sherlock's music options, none of them would work, that left the internet. He opened up the internet and searched for a ringtone that would perfectly suit Sherlock as well as being able to make him crack up laughing. He scanned through a number of songs, too perky, too poppy, too memey. Eye of the tiger? No he couldn't imagine Sherlock even knowing that song. Anything you can do I can do better? That would probably be accurate but Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate the irony of it. Mahna mahna? Nah Sherlock probably wouldn't get it. Then he struck gold, he found the perfect song and smiled evilly to himself as he changed Sherlock's ringtone and placed the phone innocently back in front of Sherlock. Mwahahhahahaha

* * *

When they returned to class John found himself with a teacher that could actually, thank the lord, teach. It was too bad that they didn't teach them the topic they were meant to be learning and instead decided that they would spend the entire lesson learning how to balance equations despite the fact that the majority of the class had already had that mastered. He sighed as he wrote out the equations and messily balanced them. As he looked at his handwriting he noticed that as the lesson went on his handwriting deteriorated. It didn't get nearly as bad as Sherlock's was but it was still pretty hard to read by the end of the lesson.

He almost stole Sherlock's notebook again just to have something to do. However, Sherlock hadn't even gotten the notebook out of his bag much to John's surprise. Every lesson except for the one where John had had it, Sherlock had had the notebook out, yet this time he didn't. Sherlock, instead had his hands in the prayer position, only occasionally flicking them as if dismissing a tab on a touch screen. It was, weird to say the least. He didn't quite know what to think of the action, except that it was far from something a normal person would be doing.

The entire class worked in silence, though John suspected that it was more texting and sleeping than actually working. The white glow of phone screens lit up the classroom and the light tap tapping could be heard echoing despite the silence of the people. Even the teacher seemed to be on her phone, however, he wondered if perhaps she was doing something important on it. He looked at her and saw the quick moving of her hands as if she were playing a game, okay, not important then. He pulled out his own phone in an attempt to relieve his boredom, but he found himself unable entertain himself, so he settled for simply watching the clock as the seconds ticked by.

Suddenly the unmistakable sound of 'I'm too sexy for my shirt' rang out incredibly loudly throughout the classroom. Sherlock jolted out of his thoughts and looked around the classroom like he was a startled meerkat. The rest of their classmates were all frantically checking their phones and looking at each other as they tried to find the source of the music, of course John knew exactly what the source of it was. He had to fight to urge to burst out laughing, he knew that if he did then he would probably fall out of his seat. It seemed that the rest of their classmates had begun to make the connection of it being Sherlock's phone and they all began to crack up in laughter, some even laughed to the point of tears. Sherlock finally seemed to connect that the sound had to be coming from his own phone and pulled it out of his pocket and answered it.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes speaking," he answered sounding overly serious. The teacher got up from her seat and walked up to him. John almost shrunk back into his seat due to the intensity of the glare she gave Sherlock. On one hand John was thankful that at least one teacher seemed to care about Sherlock's blatant disregard to school rules, one of those being not to take calls in class, but on the other he worried for his friend as he knew that he was the reason the phone had gone off so loudly.

"Sherlock, this is a classroom, turn your phone off," she instructed as she rubbed her eyes. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes as he listened to whatever the person on the other end of the phone was saying. He listened intently to the other end. The teacher seemed to be having none of this though as she actually took the phone out of Sherlock's hands and held it above him. "What part of no phones do you not understand," she asked angrily.

"Why does that rule only apply to me, you and the rest of the class are on their phones," Sherlock answered as he reached to grab the phone out of her hands. However, before he could get hold of it she took a step back so that he wouldn't be able to easily reach it.

"I am the teacher, I'm allowed to be on my phone, I need to email my coworkers," she said seriously. Sherlock rolled his eyes again and stood up to his full height. He was a foot taller than the teacher, despite the fact that she wore incredibly high heels, whether that showed how tall Sherlock actually was or how short she was John didn't particularly know.

"You weren't emailing anyone, you were playing angry birds," Sherlock said pointedly as he grabbed his phone out of her hands. She stared at him numbly and open mouthed. John swore that if she didn't close her mouth soon that she would be able to catch flies in it. However, her reaction had confirmed for the entire class that she had in fact been playing angry birds. She blanched as she floundered to come up with a counterpoint but she couldn't so she stalked back to her desk much to Sherlock's triumph.

"Hello Lestrade, sorry about that the teacher stole my phone," Sherlock said into the phone as if it was something as trivial as a spilt drink. He paused as he listened to whatever Lestrade had to say. John assumed that it was likely about the murders especially as Sherlock's face lit up like a firecracker as he listened to Lestrade speaking.

"I'll be right there," he said as he hung up the phone, likely with Lestrade protesting on the other end. John didn't know what Lestrade actually knew about Sherlock but it was obvious to him that he cared about him. So the prospect of Sherlock racing out of a classroom to a murder scene was likely an unappealing one to him. John expected him to just get up and leave but instead he turned to him with a smile. "Hey John, you coming," he asked expectantly.

John took a moment to process the question, did Sherlock really want him to come to a crime scene with him. It seemed crazy, despite the fact that he had taken him yesterday he hadn't expected for it to happen yet again. Sherlock had asked him to just ditch everything to join him on a crime that he knew nothing about, it was absurd. However, despite how crazy it was, John wasn't about to say no. He stuffed his stuff into his bag and stood up. He swung the bag over his shoulder and smiled at his crush, "just you try and stop me."

Sherlock beamed at him as he grabbed his stuff as well. He jumped over his desk and walked to the front of the class, practically bounding with energy. John, was less enthusiastic and simply walked purposely to the front of the class. However, as he expected the teacher placed herself between them and the door with a look of pure rage on her face. She folded her arms over her chest in a clear way of telling them that they weren't going anywhere.

John had a feeling that he knew exactly how Sherlock was planning to get past her and he didn't particularly like the idea of it. He would embarrass her in front of their entire class just to be able to leave it. However, surely she knew that it was in Sherlock's nature, he probably had quite the reputation around the school. Surely she knew that she had placed herself in his line of fire deductions, unless perhaps Sherlock had already deduced everything possible about her. He wondered if maybe she just didn't care, he didn't know. He braced himself for the deductions that Sherlock would likely start sprouting and willed himself not to get butterflies or show in any other obvious way his crush on Sherlock.

"Would you kindly step aside Mrs Smith," Sherlock asked politely. A collective gasp sounded from the class behind them so he assumed that politeness was something that was not in Sherlock's usual nature. To John he seemed to prefer to just show off how clever he was instead of simply being polite. To her credit Mrs Smith, didn't appear phased by Sherlock's politeness however, a look of surprise did briefly cross her face before she schooled her features.

"I'm sorry, I'll just go back to my seat instead of solving this murder and bringing this serial killer to justice, but I understand if my 'learning,'" Sherlock made finger quotes around the word learning as he said it mockingly, "is more important than the possible survival of their next victim."

"You are a teenager Sherlock, the police wouldn't consult a teenager to assist with a murder case but creative excuse," she said patronizingly. John could understand why she didn't believe him, but surely she had seen a display of Sherlock's brilliance for herself, so she had to know how smart he was. She had to know that even if he was only a teenager, Sherlock would be valuable to the police with a skill like that. Sherlock groaned at her response as he fished out his phone and scrolled through the contacts.

"Do I need to call Lestrade and waste not only his but my time, with proving to you that there has been a murder because the longer it takes me to get to the crime scene the more time they have to get away and the more time they have to plan another murder," Sherlock answered with clear irritation in his voice.

"Yes, call 'Lestrade,'" she answered as she made air quotes around the name. It was clear by the tone of her voice that she didn't believe that he existed but was keen to prove Sherlock's story wrong. "I'd like to hear what excuse your friend playing pretend will give me," she said snobbishly.

Sherlock grinned smugly as he handed the phone over as it rung Lestrade's number. As she waited for the number to connect Sherlock looked at John and whispered "I can't believe she can be so stupid." John hushed him, despite the fact that a small part of him agreed with Sherlock. He knew that she was only doing her job, but still so in some way was Sherlock. Actually he didn't actually know Sherlock's relationship with the police or why he helped out at crime scenes but he assumed that he worked with them.

"Hello this is Sherlock's teacher Mrs Smith, he told me to call you, is this Lestrade," she asked into the phone. John looked back at the rest of the class as she listened intently to whatever he had to say. Most of the class had returned to playing on their phones and the rest were poorly concealing their attempts to listen to what was going on between them and the teacher.

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot impatiently as he waited for her to finish up talking to Lestrade. He appeared full of anxious energy even though he knew that he had already won the argument. John could tell that he was raring to go and quite frankly so was he. He couldn't wait to go to the crime scene and watch Sherlock in action. He just hoped that he could keep his crush under control while they were at the scene, who knew what would happen if someone figured him out.

She sighed despondently as she handed the phone back to Sherlock after finishing listening to Lestrade. Her posture slumped as she stepped out of their way. It was in that moment that without her even saying a word to them that they knew they'd won. She gestured for them to leave as she muttered a quiet "go."

They stepped out the classroom and John grinned brightly at him in excitement. He raised his hand for a high five but Sherlock only stared at it in confusion. "High five," John prompted. Sherlock still didn't appear to get it. He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows. John just sighed and pushed down his nerves as he grabbed Sherlock's wrist with his other hand. He had to fight to urge to internally scream at the contact, something about it made his heart seem to beat a little faster. He guided Sherlock's hand to his own raised on and placed the two hands flat against each other. "That, Sherlock, is a high five," he told him as he lowered his own hands and released Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock didn't appear to really have of processed the action.

He held up his hand with a shrug, "high five?" John laughed and properly high fived him. Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Shall we," he asked as he offered his arm to John in an almost joking manner. Everytime Sherlock joked around it surprised him, he seemed like such a serious person while in class but around John he was so different. John beamed at him as he looped his own arm around his. He pushed down the feeling of butterflies trying to escape his stomach and tried to calm the beating of his heart at the contact. "We shall," he confirmed. Sherlock unlooped their arms so that he could more easily talk to him. Together the two of them left the school and headed for the crime scene.


	6. Bloody murder

The two of them arrived at the crime scene. As the walked towards the yellow police tape John could only imagine the horror that the scene would produce. Yet again the woman Sherlock had referred to as Donovan was blocking the tape. Sherlock walked up to her with his usual sense of purpose, John could only follow behind like a lost duckling. He had yet to get used to visiting crime scenes and acting as Sherlock's sort of assistant.

"Shouldn't you be in school freak," she said angrily as she stood in their path. She had her arms folded and a pointed glare directed directly at Sherlock on her face. It was clear to John that she had no intention of letting them in if her body posture was anything to go by. She had herself in a fixed position in their path. However, her posture screamed tension as she likely knew that Sherlock was about to deduce something likely horrible about her.

"Shouldn't you not be cheating on your husband," Sherlock said as he lifted the police tape for both John and himself. She froze in shock at the words and stared at him with a look of horror. John quickly ducked under the rope while she was distracted. He'd barely known Sherlock 24 hours and still, he was surprised by how blunt and disregarding he could be to other's emotions. While the blow had served its intended purpose of getting Donovan off their backs and to let them in, it didn't make it okay. Anyone could've heard the words, anyone could've begun to judge her and yet Sherlock didn't care.

"I'm sorry about him," John apologized awkwardly. Sherlock hadn't hung around to wait for John and had already bounded off to the cordoned-off crime scene to see whatever they had been called down there for. Come to think of it, Sherlock had never explained to John the case they had been called down to look at, the entire ride to the crime scene had been spent in awkward silence as John tried to hide his what was likely obvious crush on him. John was jolted out of his thoughts when Donovan decided to speak.

"Don't apologize for the freak, if anything I should be the one who's sorry for you," she answered sounded in short completely and utterly pissed off. John wondered what the relationship between Sherlock and Donovan was really like given the amount of anger in her voice was way more than was justified by Sherlock's sharp comment. Perhaps Sherlock made those comments to her frequently, but something about that theory despite how likely it was didn't seem accurate as her anger spoke volumes about her thoughts on him. There was something more between them that John just wasn't aware of.

"Why? He's my friend," John answered back defensively. He knew that there had to be a history between the two of them but yet her anger just seemed unjustified to him. Sure, Sherlock could be a gigantic dick but did it really justify her level of resentment towards him?

"You don't know anything about him, do you," she asked. All the anger and resentment was gone from her voice, instead, she sounded borderline concerned. It was strange to John, one minute she had sounded like she was ready to rip Sherlock's head off of his neck and the next she sounded like she thought that Sherlock might do just that to John. But why? It just didn't make sense, nothing about any of it made any sense.

"I know enough," John responded. However, he was almost sure that his voice betrayed his uncertainty about the situation. The truth was he didn't know much about Sherlock, for all he knew he could be a serial killer or an alien from out of space sent to invade earth. Okay, the second one was most likely not true but really with his little knowledge about his new found friend who knew. Sherlock certainly talked like he was an alien and has the cheekbones and brain of one.

"Do you," she said rather condescending. He felt like a child in a classroom being told off for not knowing the answer to a question under her gaze. "I do," he confirmed despite the fact he wasn't entirely sure if he did. She smiled slightly cockily which made it obviously clear to John that she knew as well. The truth was Donovan had known Sherlock far longer than John had and her warnings against him were starting to make him feel uncomfortable. Was Sherlock really a bad guy, he wondered. He quickly dismissed the thought. While Sherlock was an asshole if he really was a bad guy then why would the police consult him rather than sending him to jail?

"You should watch your back because Sherlock is the exact kind of person who would put a knife in it," she warned harshly. John shifted uncomfortably at the warning, he had spent his entire life watching his back and feeling like he was just being paranoid for it, but now she was actually warning him to do just that. It set him on edge. But, Sherlock was his friend, right? Friends don't hurt each other, right?

Sherlock wouldn't betray him... Right?

"Why," John asked before he could stop himself. He didn't know what Donovan's actual motivation for her warnings were, he didn't know if she was actually genuinely trying to warn him or if she just wanted to hurt Sherlock. He needed more information, but he wondered if asking for it was the right choice, would it just fuel her fire.

"Let's just say that if one day we're all standing around a dead body I wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was the one who put it there," she said bluntly and unfeeling. The words caused a chill to run through his entire body, what did she mean.

"Why would he do that," he asked worriedly.

"Because he's a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored."

The answer surprised John. He knew that people had to think a lot of things of Sherlock. Sarcastic ass, enormous prick, son of a bitch, a bastard, just to name a few, but a psychopath? That seemed like a bit of a stretch to John. Sherlock didn't behave like the typical definition of a psychopath, but yet there was this thing called acting, and it didn't seem like much of a stretch to assume that Sherlock had to be a good one. But a psychopath? Really?

"I keep telling you Sally, I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath," Sherlock cut in from behind John. John whipped his head around in the direction of Sherlock's voice and saw that Sherlock was walking towards him for some reason he didn't yet understand. Despite Sherlock's cutting correction, somehow John didn't think that he actually believed the words. They didn't sound exactly truthful coming from his mouth but rather like a well rehearsed statement that he had tried to convince himself was the truth. He didn't know what about the way Sherlock had said the words made him believe them to be a lie but he did, something about them just didn't seem right. Did Sherlock really believe that he was a psychopath, John wondered.

"Oh yes, I'm sorry how could I ever forget. It's not like you don't have friends and get off on crime scenes or anything, but of course you're not a psychopath. Of course, how could I be so stupid," she answered in return. John could practically taste the sarcasm that dripped from her tongue. He was almost a little impressed at how she managed to portray so much venom in such a sarcastic way. John expected an equally cutting remark in response from Sherlock, because if he knew anything about Sherlock it was that he wasn't about to let her sarcasm slide.

"Thank you for finally seeing the obvious," Sherlock responded. So apparently it seemed that John didn't know anything about Sherlock. He had expected deductions and some clever comeback, but nope. No jarring remark, no attempt to cut her down, just a simple level headed response. Maybe Sherlock was less of an over dramatic child than John had previously thought.

Sherlock turned around on his heels and flicked his coat dramatically as he grabbed John's wrist and pulled him towards the crime scene. Okay, so apparently Sherlock was still an over dramatic child. Maybe not a child, maybe more like a teenager because it did seem like he could occasionally hold his tongue and not make remarks that could probably cut down the strongest tree as effortless as John could bite into a marshmallow.

John could only toddle after him like a small child following their parent. Sherlock practically dragged him towards a small one story house, he could only presume that that was where the crime had taken place. Once at the door Sherlock looked between him and the doorknob, which John didn't quite understand. Instead of opening the door like he expected Sherlock instead took off his scarf and wordlessly handed it to him.

John took the scarf and took in it's soft nature. It was almost too soft for words, and he was almost sure that that couldn't be normal. He blamed his stupid crush that seemed to be evolving more and more the longer he knew Sherlock. His crush had to be the reason why the scarf felt so sickeningly soft between his fingers. He realised then that the level of the softness of the scarf shouldn't be what was on the forefront of his mind in the moment but rather why he had been given it or better yet the actual crime scene that lay behind the door.

Sherlock didn't offer him an explanation and just wordlessly opened the door. The second the door was open John understood because out wafted the sickening smell of death. He wasn't even inside yet and he was already close to gagging due to the sheer intensity of it. He didn't know why at the last crime scene he had gone on completely unaffected by whatever smell may've been wafting off the bodies but this time there was no way he could ignore it. It smelled like someone had left rotting meat out in the sun for days and let rubbish and bacteria accumulate with it. In short, it was terrible and gag inducing. However, despite the terrible smell filling the air he was almost sure that he could smell something else within it. Something that smelled almost sweet but he couldn't put his finger on what.

He figured that the horrible smell had to be the reason that Sherlock had given him the scarf. He wasted no time in wrapping it in such a way that it would at the very least dull the smell and make it slightly more bearable. Though he guessed with a dead body lying on the floor, bearable was a matter of perspective. He had no idea how Sherlock managed to enter the small house appearing completely unaffected by the foul smell of death lingering in the air. Perhaps he couldn't smell? Or maybe he was an alien with super senses that stopped all bad smells? Suddenly the 'Sherlock is an alien' theory seemed to have a lot more merit.

John awkwardly followed after Sherlock as they stepped inside the house. As Sherlock lead him through the rooms to whichever one had the corpse in it John took in his surroundings. In short the small house looked like a disaster zone. In fact if John hadn't known any better he would've thought that a tornado had ripped through it. Furniture appeared to have been thrown across the room and some of it was even broken in two. The TV had a large crack through the middle of it and it's broken cord left wires lying across the floor. What happened here, John thought as he walked through the chaos.

John got his answer as soon as they walked into the house's kitchen where Lestrade stood. Lestrade was tapping on his phone and seemingly unphased by the corpses lying on the ground in front of him. John almost gagged at the sight of them combined with the almost overwhelming death smell lingering in the air. He was at least thankful for Sherlock having given him his scarf.

"Hello Lestrade," Sherlock greeted, which called Lestrade's attention off of his phone and onto the two of them.

"You need to stop skipping out on school to help with these murders Sherlock, the crime can wait a few hours for you to finish for the day," Lestrade said sounding like a parent scolding a child more than anything else. Yet John guessed that Sherlock was practically an overgrown child so really he was doing just that. Bright mind or not, Sherlock and by extension John, were both meant to be in school yet they had skipped out to come to the crime scene. Why, John wondered.

"You called me because you were out of your depth Lestrade, you knew full well that I was in school. If it were really a matter of the crime can wait, you would've called me after school, that's what you used to do when you were out of your depth. I think we both know that this is a crime that cannot wait, these murders have been going on for weeks and none of you have even come close to catching the culprit. You need me Lestrade."

Lestrade let out a sigh which told John what he already knew. Sherlock was right. He wondered how many murders had already occured, he had heard briefly about a serial killer going around, Jack the ripper 2.0 people often nicknamed them, except he had never really thought that it might be true. He had never really connected the situation with reality and now suddenly it was like the switch had been flicked and it all suddenly made sense. That was why Sherlock had been so desperate to get to the scene and that was why they had called him in the first place. It wasn't just about solving the murder, it was about stopping anymore. But, could it really be the same killer they talked about so heavily on the news?

He took in the scene around him. Like the scene he had seen the previous day there were blood stains throughout the room. However, the difference was that instead of just one victim this time there were two. One was a woman who looked to be in her early twenties with long ratted blonde hair whose clothes were ill fitting and appeared way too large given her thin frame. The other was a younger girl who looked like she couldn't be older than thirteen. Like the older one she too had matted blonde hair except her clothes fit significantly better and looked like they belonged to someone from the middle class, or at least what little of them was recognisable beneath the tears and blood stains. Both women resembled the one that John had seen at the previous crime scene, right down to the placement of the marks and bloodstains.

"Something's different," Sherlock announced as he surveyed the scene. John couldn't think as to what he meant by different, both of them appeared mutilated to the same level as the previous woman, and the crime scenes appeared similar, so what was different?

"The younger girl is the killers usual victim, young teenage girl. A social outcast, this is obvious by the lack of pictures or cleanliness throughout the flat, while it's possible that she could just be lazy judging by the fact she coordinated her clothes and makeup she obviously cares what others think of her. Despite the mess throughout the flat there's significant evidence to prove that it was already at least slightly messy before the mess of the furniture was made. Obvious by the fact that there are clothes and plates and other household items on the floor thrown into the fray of the other stuff. While it's possible that the murderer put those there it is unlikely as they have never tried to take things in the past, conclusion she doesn't have friends over a lot so a social outcast, therefore fitting the victim profile of the killer."

John stared at Sherlock in awe. How he had been able to deduce that there had already been a mess in the small house despite the fact the house was in shambles was beyond him. There was almost no evidence that anything lying in the floor hadn't just been thrown into the fray by the murderer but yet Sherlock's logic was sound. "What about the other one," John found himself asking as he looked at Sherlock in amazement. He didn't think he would ever be able to get over how Sherlock could learn so much from just one look.

"The other girl is her older sister, this is obvious due to the similarities between the two of them and the fact that they are both living together. The older sister has evidence of defensive wounds on her hands and wrists but the younger one doesn't which is surprising given her state. My guess would be that the older one tried to defend her but got killed in the process leaving her defenseless however this is just speculation. The killer tried to cover it up if the potent smell of lavender is anything to go by."

Lavender? John never would've detected that, sure he knew that there was an underlying sweet smell but never in a million years would he have actually detected it. In fact how Sherlock could smell anything beneath the horrible death smell was beyond him. Perhaps he was an alien?

Suddenly Lestrade cut in before John could compliment his boyfriend on his amazing deduction skills. "There's often the smell of lavender in the air, it's not rare for you to notice it when you have come down to these crimes. You said something was different though, what's different," he asked. To John's surprise unlike Donovan he didn't sound in general pissed off by Sherlock's presence, he sounded more curious than anything else.

"Really, you don't see it," Sherlock asked confused. John and Lestrade both shook their heads indicating to him that no, they did not see it, whatever it was. Sherlock gave them a look that screamed 'what's it like not being me' which was fairly similar to his 'you're an idiot' look. Really to Sherlock though, both of them seemed to be the same thing. "Look around, look at the amount of chaos and mayhem littered around the house. Don't you see it?"

They looked around again taking a second look at the room. John still couldn't see what Sherlock was getting at though. The furniture was overturned like last time and many things lay broken and discarded on the floor. What was so different? Yeah things were broken, things were a mess and sure it looked like a tornado had ripped through the small house but how was that different than before? What had changed?

"How can you not see it," Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. He gestured wildly at the overturned items and broken possessions along with the broken windows. Basically everything within the house was broken, what was Sherlock getting out. They knew that much so why did he keep gesturing at it like it held the answer to the universe and everything.

"We can't all be as brilliant as you Sherlock, so please do enlighten us," Lestrade said matter of factly. His tone left no room for argument and gave up the underlying feeling that John knew they were both experiencing. The feeling of 'yes Sherlock we know we're idiots, just shut up and tell us.' There wasn't really a word to describe that feeling but John found he often got the I'm an idiot feeling around the genius detective.

"You two are blind," Sherlock scoffed before he set off into another long winded deduction where he seemed to talk faster than was humanly possible. "It's different this time, the furniture is more broken and every single piece of it has either been broken or thrown across the room. The windows in the room appear to be broken even. None of these have been present at any of the other crime scenes for this case. There are never broken windows and while there is normally chaos that chaos is normally related to the victim trying to escape, if they tried to escape here they wouldn't have had to break and throw all their furniture nor would they have been able to. Look at them they are skin and bones and likely have very little muscle on them even with an adrenaline rush there's no way they would've been able to do that amount of damage to their own home. Also there's only ever one victim at a time and it's always a young girl, this time there's two victims."

Lestrade cut Sherlock off before he could finish his speech. "Does this mean it's a copycat," he asked. John knew what a copycat was, it was when someone tried to get away with a murder by copying the style of a serial killer and the serial killer had a very distinct chaotic style.

"No, not a copycat. It fits the pattern of our usual killer given it occured over the 4 days when the moon is full. Our killer is the only one who does that and any copycat of them always falls outside of this cycle and winds up dead the next full moon, we know that much. Even when you lot are too stupid to identify the copycat when they wind up dead the next week you are usually smart enough to figure out the connection. I also know it isn't a copycat because you know how it works Lestrade. Every full moon he picks a new victim to target, this time it's obviously a blonde young girl with few friends who wants to fit in, last time round it was multi coloured haired artists. We know that it changes every month and the latest target hasn't been released to the media or the public yet and anyone trying to copycat it would know the killer only ever kills one person at a time. This isn't a copycat."

"So we have another murderer on our hands," Lestrade asked sounding tired. John didn't blame him, with a serial killer already running rampant around London the last thing they needed was another.

"No, it's the same one. This just wasn't the same motive, it had to have occured two days ago, lining up with the first day of the full moon. So it lined up with their usual pattern and the younger girl lines up with this month's target, yet it's different as the older girl is involved. This wasn't their usual motive, it was something different. It had to be personal and judging by the destruction it was anger. Never in any one of the previous murders have they ever destroyed anything to this extent so therefore the motive for this one is different and as it had to have taken place before the crime we saw yesterday the overall motive hasn't changed. Therefore it was only different for this one, it was anger. Therefore most likely there has to be a connection between our two women here and the murderer as only something personal would cause anger that would leave this level of destruction given that it is very clear that they desired to destroy everything that these two had in their possession. Therefore, one of them likely did something to make them angry during the last month and this was a revenge or fury related murder. However, now we have something you lot haven't had since this case started."

Both Lestrade and John looked at him in shock. "What do we have," they both asked simultaneously.

"A lead!"


End file.
